


In My Solitude (You Haunt Me)

by AceQueenKing



Category: Ancient Greek Religion & Lore
Genre: Abandonment Issues, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Comfort Sex, Cunnilingus, F/M, Helping Hurt Character Undress, Hurt character hides their hurt out of pride, Hurt character minimizes how much comfort affects them, Penis In Vagina Sex, Premature Ejaculation, The many downsides of immortality, Touch Starvation - Stoic character breaks down on being touched, Touch-Starved Character Having Overwhelming Tender Long Foreplay First Time Sex, Undressing hurt/sick character, blowjob
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-24
Updated: 2020-05-24
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:41:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24199891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AceQueenKing/pseuds/AceQueenKing
Summary: Hades offers Persephone the seeds out of desperation, but winds up giving her far more than he intended...
Relationships: Hades/Persephone (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore)
Comments: 9
Kudos: 247
Collections: Hurt Comfort Exchange 2020





	In My Solitude (You Haunt Me)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LuciferxDamien](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LuciferxDamien/gifts).



Hermes’ arrival forces Hades to feel something he has never felt before: desperation.

He summons pomegranate seeds, holds them out with a desperate hand. He does not know what he is truly offering, can only hope Persephone understands what he is attempting to say. In the old days, the gods pledged their troth to one another in this manner: to create a bit of one thing, to offer to another.

But Persephone is not one of the old gods.

This is a most unusual action for Hades. He is so rarely, given his disposition, to such immortal desperation. Such tides of emotion do not often happen to Hades, who has a hard-won reputation for being hard headed, for being without pity, for measuring every life in his hands and making a just, right decision.

But there is no time for that with Persephone. The girl herself is a planner—Hades himself is far too careful a man to have chosen a bride of different temperament, he has learned from his brother there—but Hermes' introduction is a sour note, an unexpected intruder in their courting. His brother apparently does not hold patience; his brother wants the matter settled. Enter the unwelcome messenger. He and Persephone both knew it was but a matter of time, but he does think his craven brother might have been generous enough to have come down himself, rather than send this young child.

Hermes, the messenger, flaps his wings impatiently in the background; Hades ignores him, keeps his gaze solely upon Persephone. Her mood is as somber as his own; decades of conversation are encapsulated in those looks. She does not want to go, of course; their relationship has not been a quick fling. They built it up, stones slowly but surely forming a wall: conversations here and there, stolen kisses, and now, finally, this. Now, they are at the terminus, a split in the road. A wall can only be so high before it transforms into a home, bending and curving in new directions.

He holds the seeds out to her; she inspects them.

"Let us enjoy a brief moment of respite," he says. His voice shakes. He has summoned the seeds from nothing; a rarer demonstration of his talents, but he is not the god of fertility under the earth for no reason and this, at a moment, is how he chooses to offer her a part of himself. _We are both earth gods_ , he tries to suggest wordlessly. _We are in harmony._

None in his generation has done this. He wonders: will they taste like the real thing, sweet and tart? Persephone, he thinks, is quick enough to know what he is truly offering, what pomegranates symbolize: what it means to partake in this, the final offer of courtship. He hopes, he hopes, he hopes.

Persephone looks back at him, then back at Hermes. When she turns back to him again, he feels certain from the half-smile on her lips that she knows what he is really asking. "Surely you will want something for the road?" He says, desperate.

He _needs_ an answer. This is a terribly bold play, but with Hermes (and, his brother, by proxy) forcing his hand, there is little else to do.

"A rather long snack," she says, then smiles. Her smile is blinding and he feels the start of a bit of relief run through him. She has not broken her fast yet, and he knows the reason: she is too careful a woman to throw her life away on something less than eternal companionship. She has not offered him her maidenhead for the same reason, and he has not insisted. He would have liked for such to come up naturally, for them to be able to take their time in a slow, decadent dance. But thanks to his brother and Hermes, she will have to choose, and choose now. Does she throw her hand in with him or not? He has only to wait a moment or two to find out her decision and yet such seems to be a most difficult duty, one well beyond his abilities.

The world seems to skitter out of focus for a moment as his ancient heart thumps; she, younger and perhaps all the more emboldened for it, reaches for his hand and takes the seeds - exactly six. It is not much food, but it is enough. 

It will damn her, all the same. He feels an instant difference as soon as they are devoured; she has always been radiant but now becomes even more so, unbearably so. She shines with a bit of his soul inside her and Hades thinks: _this is right. This is how it should be._

He is careful not to give his joy away to Hermes—they are not yet at that part of the game, and Persephone, for her part, will have to play the faithful child to appease her mother.

But Hades lets them go with a song in his heart.

And he has not noticed a thing wrong with her leaving.

He has always been an alert man, but today, he is focused only on his victory over Demeter. He doesnot notice that the world felt a bit odder, the world rendered a bit more colorless. He does not notice that as Persephone moves closer and closer to her mother, his underworld dims. These are the first signs, but they are not the last.

And if he could have known just what he had given up for Persephone’s hand, he might have regretted it—but then again, perhaps not.

The rest of his day, he thinks of nothing else but her.

* * *

He notices the changes slowly. 

Part of this is because Hades, himself, though so often observant, is too preoccupied to notice himself becoming affected. He thinks of Persephone; he wonders how she is doing. He has thought of her often and does not notice that he is doing so more than usual, though he is.

Part of what dulls him, to say, why he does not notice, is this: he has become a rather sedentary man. His daily activities do not involve anything so strenuous as to immediately notice the glacial ice descending upon his limbs, his soul straining against his body. He watches his judges preside over his new charges, sitting iron-rod straight as the newest human souls come to him. He rarely has to intervene in their decisions; they are generally decided justly and so he does not notice any slowness to his speech for he has little reason to notice when his mouth is not open.

These are subtle changes. Hades, so black and white in his thinking, does not notice as the world around him gradually goes both colorless and joyless: the underworld held little enough of both that he could just barely see its absence. If he had noticed any new darkness in the dank den, he would have simply dismissed it as his love making himself feel so lonely.

And he would not, entirely, have been wrong.

He also does not notice the changes to the underworld itself, wrought as one half of its ruler walks the world above. He does not notice the shades become smaller wisps, more transparent; all are the same in his eyes. He does not notice the corridors shrinking, the few bits of living fauna – brought by the new queen – instead, folding in on themselves, going dormant.

Critically, he does not notice his thinking becoming slow, slack; does not notice his hands, infinitesimally slower than they had been, becoming slower still every second Hermes sped his fiancé away. By the time Persephone is plying white lies to her mother—easier for Demeter to imagine death's bride a captive, not a willing conspirator—he has gone nearly still, quiet.

If he would have been capable of thinking as sharply as normal, he would have noticed at this point that something was wrong.

However, he does not.

He thinks himself merely emotionally fatigued; only that, in his mind, can explain how it has taken him hours to gather the strength to make it to his—no, _their_ —bedroom. He wonders if it is Demeter's wrath, finally descended down through the cold Earth. His bones feel heavy, but weak, like a rotten tree limb that might snap at any moment. He misses his bride; he thinks he will feel better tomorrow.

He will wake up, and surely she will be on her way back tomorrow.

But first he must sleep, and this proves impossible. Hades' limbs ache. It is impossible to feel comfortable. There is not enough light to use a sun-dial in the underworld, but Hades marks the time as it passes. One second, two. Three-four-five-six. Seven. He counts up to a million, then counts down. Flops to his other side. Starts a new repetition of the numbers in another language. It does not help. His mind feels slow, honey drizzling into a jar.

He cannot find a reason for it, even thinking exhaustively, deep in the dark.

Is he nervous? He does not think he is anxious over his nuptials. Persephone will submit to her fate without complaint, and no matter how much Demeter will complain, his brother will make the right decision. Zeus still holds some respect for the arcane, natural laws that decree virtually every limit put upon their people. He has but to be patient. Persephone will return to him, and he does not have to pine like a love-sick child. He need only wait a day; he has only to wait for the ruling. Even if Zeus attempted to force Persephone to return to her mother, it will not work for long. She has eaten of the underworld—or its ruler at any rate— and the underworld, and Hades himself, will take its due of her.

He is not nervous.

But if not that, what? He cannot explain the ill-feeling that lurks in him, the ailment that makes his bones ache, his mind twist. Perhaps it is merely the discomfort of a change of life, of becoming married.

He decides he will not think of her, but as he shifts once more, his thoughts all return to one familiar source. How funny it is that he misses her so much, this woman who has been in his life for only months. How odd that he has never noticed how large his old bed is without the sunshine girl to sit upon it with him; how empty his mind feels without her questions and her pleasant chit chat. He closes his eyes and in the darkness, he sees the hint of the wide carmine-lipped smile that could only be hers. On his sheets, his finger traces his memory of the silhouette of that warm, bountiful body.

He stays in his bed, but he never does quite find sleep. It eludes him, as Persephone herself eludes him.

Thoughts of Persephone do not elude him.

He gets up after several hours of such daydreams and goes back to his throne at the appointed hour to begin judgments. He ignores every protest his body makes along the way. Sleep is not strictly a requirement of their kind but he does feel the strain from the lack of rest. It is hard not to see her face in every woman who comes to him, though none of these starved, hollow-eyed shades have the vitality or beauty of his wife. But still, he sees her in them; it disturbs him. Such wisps should not conjure familiar faces when he looks upon them.

After several hours, he attempts to break to sup, and finds he cannot find much joy in the eating. He tries to eat a bit of bread; it tastes of nothing. Instinctively, he eats a few of the pomegranate arils he has, thinking perhaps they will help, if only in that they remind him of her. He spits them out. They have no flavor. He tries several other foods to the same result.

Nothing without her is enjoyable.

He stares at the glass at his side: wine, of course. It keeps well down here. He tries to drink it, but he feels the same absence of pleasure. His body feels muddling and slow, as if he’s had too much drink in his system but he has only drunk a sipful at most. 

He feels numb without her. Persephone has gone back to the living, and he wonders if this has, as a side-effect, doomed him to feel as if he has taken his place among the dead. He feels slow, sluggish; he mentions his mourning to Thanatos when the man enters to make his report. Thanatos stares at him as if he has lost his mind. Hades attempts to make as if he has told a great joke. Like most of his social interactions, it fails. Persephone, he thinks, might have laughed.

By afternoon, he is not surprised to be interrupted by Hermes, but neither is he pleased by the interruption. Hermes is alone, and for a moment, he has fear in his heart, before Hermes lays down his proclamation.

"My Lord Father, Zeus," Hermes says, twisting his fingers in a pattern that Hades watches, transfixed; the boy is nervous. He worries this bodes ill, and a moment later, the boy confirms it is so when he delivers Zeus’ proclamation: "He has decreed both you and Demeter have a valid claim to Persephone."

"Ridiculous," he offers, and tries to stand, but such takes too much energy. Still, the threat of it is enough. Hermes holds out both hands, tries to step backwards only to realize he cannot. Afraid.

As he should be.

"Please, do not blame me, uncle." He gives Hades a watery smile. "Allow me to finish the message, and I will carry back whatever you wish to say."

"Very well." He raises his hand; the boy continues, a bit too fast. If Hades has gone all-slow, Hermes has, if anything, sped up. The boy hops from foot to foot, as if he can outrun the underworld standing in place if he only tries. 

"He-says-Persephone-will-stay-with-her-mother-six-months," he says, the words so run together that it takes Hades a moment to realize their meaning. Hermes only pauses to gather a breath before saying the rest. "And-six-months-with-you." 

"I see," he says, and feels sorrow weigh him down. He sits on his throne. His rage slips to powerlessness; Zeus has outwitted him. Giving her to him half the year will fulfill the oath enough; the fates will not challenge it for him. They might have had this brother been less kind. He sighs. "Six months."

"I know," Hermes says. He flutters back and forth, all too clearly eager to leave. Hades perceives this but it takes forever for what he observes—the boy's feet swaying, his wings beating, the nervous expression—to echo back to his brain, be evaluated, and the perceived judgment come forth: nervousness, flight reflex. He does not quite know why any thought but her only drizzles into him, as if honey, but he knows, instinctively, that something is wrong. Hades has always been a being of quick mind and body; he had to be, to gain the seat he has won.

"Alright," he says; the word takes forever to fall out of him, stuttered: _aaa-alright._ "Leave me," he says, the words sliding equally oil-slicked.

The boy leaves.

Hades closes his eyes, brushes the back of his sleeve against his face. It comes away wet, and it takes ages for him to realize what has splashed upon it is his own tears. He has no awareness of his tears until he feels them on his sleeve.

This is the point where Hades realizes, abruptly, that something is very, very wrong.

That knowledge takes a long time to pop up in him; it spreads like oil, slowly pouring from his nervous system to his celestial brain. "Oh," he says; his word might be a moan. It is not entirely voluntary. He should call someone, he thinks; the thought of who takes similar amounts of time, the soul-sucking wrongness of his bodily reaction coming long before the realization that it is the Fates he requires seeing.

He stands, which takes him more time than it should. It is at least five minutes of struggle. Then he puts his hands out to balance and moves his legs, excruciatingly slowly but successfully: one foot in front of the other, then the other, then the other. He thinks of Persephone, and hopes, desperately, that she, too, is not suffering this sudden ailment. That thought comes quick enough.

Demeter has enough to blame him for already.

He moves slowly, slowly. One foot, then the other. Again and again. The Fates live in his world, but far away from his house, outside of his influence. Normally, it is not a problem for him—he is not quite that power-hungry, and so long as they do not cross his path, he counts himself lucky. Now he second-guesses those decisions made long ago, for he desperately wants their advice and they are so, so far away. Why had he not insisted they stay near his palace at his coronation? Why had he allowed these three old women to reside in the most liminal of in-betweens of the underworld?

After some time—far too much time, for his feet are sore, and his mind, too, has fully percolated in its panic—the fates show mercy. They come to him, appearing suddenly out of the darkness. They walk single file, three old ladies all dressed in godly finery that obeys a sartorial style of which he has no concept. It predates him, and few things do.

"The king comes to us," says the first Fate, the oldest; she shines a lantern in his face. It takes precious moments before his eyes water from it - another sign that something is wrong. Hades, bound under the earth as long as he has been, is often sensitive to light. Once it finally kicks it, the sensation is painful. The world waters before his eyes; he tries to summon the ability to speak his own voice and only to find it harder than before.

"Do not waste your tongue," the second Fate says, the measurer. She drops her measure upon his shoulders, smirks. It is not normally a malevolent feeling, the feeling of fate perched upon his shoulders, but today he shudders.

The third Fate comes, the cutter: she stands quite close but says nothing. If any other God or Goddess had the fate who cuts strings staring upon them, they would surely shirk away. But there is not much they can do to the master of dead men, or so he thinks; he has seen her many times, but today, he feels terror at her gaze. A whimper ekes out his tongue, surprising him.

"You have something to lose now, boy," the third Fate says. She grasps his cheeks, wickedness in her eyes; he wants, for the first time, to worm away from the touch. "A part of your soul fears death."

"Impossible," he says, a lie. He knows exactly the part of him that fears death. It is the part of him that blossomed when his new bride placed her hand upon his brow; the part of him who quivered as she brought her lips to his for the first time. He is no longer immune to the fear of his own death, for he does fear the loss of living with her.

"Am I dying?" he asks.

All three of the Fates look at one another.

They cackle.

It starts with the thread-spinner, who lets out a snort that sounds like the crack of a column tumbling down; her laughter washes into the second Fate's laugh, the measurer's snicker that reminds him of waves lapping upon the shores of a temple doomed for oblivion, and the third joins: her laugh is deep, rich, and _cold_ as the grave itself, the cutter who tells no lies.

"No," answers the first. "Not today."

"No," answers the second. "Not this millennium."

"No," answers the third. "Not until the earth surrenders itself unto the unmaking, and perhaps even after. Who can say?"

The three answers should comfort him. They do not. "There is something—" he tries to find the words, but his mind is slow, the words difficult. With great effort, he holds up a hand.

All three fates shake their heads.

"There is something wrong, yes," says the first.

"Something grievously wrong," says the second.

"Something horribly wrong," says the third. "With you."

"Tell...T-tell..." The words are becoming harder to get out by the second.

The three look at one another.

"A seed was grown from your soul," says the first.

"A seed was watered by your blood," says the second.

"A seed was devoured by your love," says the third.

"The plant was sprouted," say all three together. They put their hands on his shoulders, and it takes him over a minute to feel the chill of it all. Getting worse, he thinks. "And the roots drove deep."

"It was the—the seeds?" He sputters; they talk in rhymes, and he is so, so tired, cold, and _slow_. His body aches.

"You have married her," says the first, holding out her hands to the second.

"Gave her your soul," says the second, pressing her palms to the first.

"And now you are separated," says the third. She pulls the hands of the other two apart. "A sprout stretched far from your roots."

"Oh," he says, and he does. He has offered her a bit of his soul, and she has taken it into her; now, half of his being is gone, stretched out in the six months that separate her from him. "Is she suffering as well?"

"Not yet," says the first.

"She did not offer you a seed," says the second.

"And so her soul stays intact," says the third.

"Oh, oh." Then there is no suffering on her part. That, at least, is a balm to him, and it soaks into him, welcome as a summer rain filtering into the ground. She will not be hurt by his rather arcane proposal; it will only hurt himself. Not ideal, but better than the alternative. He will not have her finish that half of the ceremony; they will stick to the rings so preferred by his brother’s generation. "Is there no relief? No succor, for me?"

"A mortal would die," says the first.

"A mortal would waste away," says the second.

"But you are not mortal," says the third.

Hades, King of the Underworld, takes a long moment to understand, and when he does, he collapses to his knees, even knowing the effort it will take him to stand. There is no succor. There will be no relief. He will live with his soul constantly struggling to find his other half for months on end.

"Do not despair," says the first, her voice a mocking knife.

"It is not the end of the world," says the second, her voice too sweet to hold any hope in it.

"It is only six months," says the third: and that much is true. She will return to him. Later then he would have hoped, but still, she will return to him.

He shivers at the thought of this all the same; six months of unending obsession and torment.

"Can I see her?" He whispers; the women, fates three, look unimpressed. "Please tell me it would - it would aid."

"A temporary salve at best," says the first.

"Nothing more," says the second.

"The girl will know of your suffering," says the third. And that alone is a reason not to do it; better for her to remain in ignorance, to remain unknowing of his suffering. Persephone cannot know how badly he hurts for her down here, or she will suffer just as much as he will.

"And it will be every year?" He asks, and he hears the funerary dirge in his own voice. Every year, he will break down like this, praying for a relief that will only come in time. His bones feel heavy; he wants to stand. The thought occurs to him, but he cannot find the will within himself to do it.

"Two souls conjoined cannot be undone," says the first.

"Two souls conjoined are conjoined permanently," says the second.

"So one must take care to give their heart away only to the one they love," says the third.

"But who knows?" All three shake their heads, an odd, synchronized ballet; they spin and turn away from him, and he knows his time is short.

"It will get worse, before it gets better," says the first fate, before she takes a step away. She vanishes into the darkness, and he is left alone with the other two. How comforting.

"It will test your mettle," says the second; she pats his shoulder, and he barely feels it for a moment, then a burst of pain when she presses down hard enough to break through whatever this confounded soul curse is. With that, she too vanishes into the mist.

"But you will survive," says the third. "And there will be some reward, in the end." The third of the fates, the cutter of threads, leans down to whisper this in his ear. And then she is gone.

But he does not feel any benefits, cannot imagine any benefits.

He slowly—achingly slowly, for his mind is running at a snail's pace and his body even less than that—collects himself enough to stumble back to his home. Ordinarily, he would feel it a kindness for the fates to have offered to meet him half-way, but what would have taken him an hour's trip a mere twenty-four hours ago now takes seeming ages, his body aching the whole way. It feels as if his bones want to leave his body, to find Persephone. He cannot stop himself from wondering how she is taking this, though the matter of knowing that she is not suffering on this level does give him some comfort. Still, he cannot imagine that she herself is entirely happy; had she known her father's capricious ruling, she would have perhaps demanded he produce more seeds.

But could even he, an immortal, bear such? She has only eaten six small bites of his soul, and already he is under torment. His legs cry out for him to give up; his lungs feel weak. He feels sapped of all energy, every celestial bit of his immortal body wanting, desperately, only one thing.

And the one thing he cannot have, at that.

He makes it to his bed after a couple hours, and though it takes longer than usual to curl himself into it, he cannot find much joy in having successfully done so. He is only more aware of how empty it is, how much he wishes the girl had stayed after all, how much he wishes he had not tried to trick Demeter and Zeus using an arcane trick. He has always been clever. But now he has been too clever for himself, and now he will pay the price.

He does manage to sleep that night, his dreams always focused on Persephone; her carmine lips biting at his neck, her fingers exploring his body in wide, grassy spaces in the world above. They are dreams that cannot become reality—for him to go to the surface is difficult, requires a significant amount of power, and weathering the discomfort of the eye-burning sun is ever a challenge—but he awakens from each wishing that they were, in some way, capable of being made real without her having to learn of his suffering.

Persephone becomes the itch he cannot scratch; even when he awakes and shifts positions, he dreams of her again and again. The obsession becomes all the more consuming as the days go on endlessly. When he awakens in the mornings, he thinks of her. When he eats, he wonders what she is eating, and these thoughts make everything else in his life drift into meaninglessness. He is late to his judgments; he is late to his bed. There are times he attempts to gratify himself to the thought of her on an ill-gotten thought that such might— _might_!—make him think of her less, but any seed spilled only makes him ravenous with the desire to take such pleasures in her.

Everything else has lost its joy.

He sleeps, but there is no refreshment in it, only constant teasing of a woman he has not had. Perhaps next year will be better, he thinks, when at least he can supplement fantasy with his memories; he has no doubt that she will be a most willing bed-mate, if only she would return. But when will she return? He thinks, wearily, of the time. The time is not Persephone, but Persephone-adjacent enough the thought comes to him: five months, four weeks, three days. He groans into his pillow. He wonders what songs she might make if she were here, nestled in his pillows with him. He touches himself to the thought of it, and it's her name on his lips when he gratifies himself - but the self-touch brings no pleasure, only a hollow awareness that despite the bodily release, he won't be satisfied until his soul finds its now-other half. It changes nothing.

He eats, but this too is without much pleasure. Food was once something he could take a great pride in; he could afford the best of any village's butcheries and farms, and there was no one who lived who did not rejoice at the "merchant" coming to town to take some of their wares for the prices he was willing to pay. His table could reliably be said to be the best of his brothers, when he was of an opinion to have company. Now, the food only conjures memories of her when he sat at his table, gently offering her foods she refused to touch, for fear of setting her fate too fast. If only she had known, he thinks. All the food tastes of pomegranate, bitter-tang, like blood. He eats enough to keep his own sustenance, but he knows he must not force down enough, for his subjects comment on it.

"You look terrible," Thanatos says; Hekate says nothing, but raises her brows sky-high when she crosses him stumbling to his throne. He trips over his robes one day and is annoyed at the action. He did not remember them getting so underfoot. Minutes later, he realizes to his horror that the reason the once fitting robes are now falling to be trampled under his stumbling limbs is due to him losing weight. He tries to eat more, but the chore is beyond tiring. Without _her_ , there is no luster to it, no enjoyment to be had. It is merely the grinding of flavorless mush.

And it gets worse. His body constantly fights against him; his mind is always occupied, drifting to her every second he does not force himself to think of anything else (and as time goes on, he is less and less successful at discovering anything else). His madness for her invades him, every part of his life. He has not slept in ages. He constantly forgets to eat. He barely even retires to his quarters anymore, for the effort of going to his throne room is so exhausting. She even changes the way he rules.

Once, he was a just king, but not kind, never kind; now, when someone is on the border, he errs on the side of being too lenient. It is a change that he knows is brought by what she would wish of him; was it not her always urging him to leniency when she sat upon her side of her throne? He rules the way he thinks she would wish him to. He thinks. She has not been there for a very long time now. He is not sure, entirely, what is memory, and what is fantasy.

The days blur together, and Hades finds himself fading with them. Gradually, his body goes stiffer and stiffer; he does not have the strength to even leave his throne after his duties for the day are done. He stays there all night, staring at nothing once the judges leave–they titter at one another, but they are afraid of him, and so their gossip does not reach his ears. He does not ask for help, and though they are concerned, none of his underworld subordinates dares to lift a finger to help him.

He stays on his throne, and only occupies himself waiting and hoping desperately for his wife to come, to grace his shoulders with a touch, a kiss, _anything_. The best of his nights, he falls asleep upon his throne dreaming of her. The worst, he cries out for her, tears he cannot find the strength to wipe away falling from his eyes.

He last saw her here, and sometimes he cannot help but feel it is perhaps a comfort, to know this is where she spent her last seconds in his realm. His mind is occupied wholly on her, now. He no longer voices opinions in the judgments. He sometimes gathers his thoughts enough that he thinks of writing her letters, but such takes more power over his brain and his body than he has, so instead he stays mute, even at his judgments. He listens for her footsteps, while rubbing at the empty chair next to his; he doubts there can be even an atom of her spirit there anymore. Still, he does his best to try to imagine there is, for the thought of touching something that once touched her is too good a daydream to stop.

No one mentions his madness, though he thinks it is quite clear. He cannot summon enough thoughts to care about how his subordinates view him. He cannot summon even an iota of ability to care about whether they view him as weak. Such is beyond him, now.

Six months pass in this hell: being unable to think of anything but her, barely able to attend himself. He is shocked that by the time he finally is able to drag himself to one of the rivers to bathe, he can see a miserably long beard. It takes him nearly a full day to cut and shave it back to a proper level, to bath his body and anoint it in oils that will smell pleasing to her. And every second that he does, he is still listening for her arrival, hoping, desperately, that she will come early.

* * *

She doesn't.

Persephone arrives not early, not on time, but late; she is a date late, the twenty-four hours miserably spent huddled up upon his throne. He is ashamed to admit it, but when she is fifteen hours late, he begins to suspect she will not come, and tears leak from his eyes, even in the middle of his judgments. He had not thought her the type to abandon a commitment before it had even properly begun, but perhaps he has rushed things. Perhaps he has been unwise. Perhaps he has been fooled.

It scares him to think himself capable of being such. He is the God well known for good council; the God of contracts, the God of unbreakable vows. He cannot fathom the idea of being hoodwinked or betrayed in such a manner, particularly by a woman who he trusted enough to share a bit of his soul with.

Even in his darkest moments, he cannot stop thinking of her.

And though those hours are dark, perhaps some of the darkest in his life since the war, they are nothing, nothing, compared to the heady elixir that wafts through him as he realizes that she is returning.

The return of sensation comes to him gradually; he unwinds limbs long made rusty with monstrous cracks; he becomes aware for the first time in many months that the color of her throne is not grey, but green. His breath catches and he wipes the tears from his face, not in the slow speed of his hellish existence for the last few months, but with the quickness that benefits a God. He sees the shades look around in confusion as wisps of Asphodel and Narcissus burst into being, their long-dormant owner blossoming them all around him.

 _She is coming_.

He tries to move his feet but his joints don’t listen, not quite yet; he manages to stumble from his throne on ill-used legs before the door bursts open and she is there. He manages to keep himself upright, and in seeing her, power courses back into him so fast that he is frozen by its sudden arrival, just as much as he was frozen by his gradual departure.

She runs to him, despite it being perhaps beneath her royal dignities to do so. He is frozen until she touches him. "I feared you wouldn't come," he says, the stupid thought bursting from his tongue like a damn overripe fruit. His voice sounds rusty, as if a pipe that has long been stuck. She shakes her head, offers him her hand.

He takes it.

"Nothing could stop me," she says. "Not for long. Not even my mother."

He does not answer. He is staring wondrously at her palm. It feels like nothing short of a revelation, the touch of her skin on his skin. He is whole for the first time in so long, the sensation nearly so powerful he could weep from it. He cannot stop staring. He cannot.

"Are you alright?" She asks, her voice soft. "Hades."

He does not answer for a full minute, not due to the horrible, imperceptible slowness, but the sheer _beauty_ of her hand in his.

"I am," he says, a lie but also the truth; the smile, he suspects, does not quite convince, but she smiles back, tilts his cheek into her hand. The sensation makes him almost quiver, and his soon-to-be wife notices.

"We should marry," he mutters, quiet enough to ensure no one overhears it. "Quickly." He has to finish the ceremony while he can; has to ensure she will remain by his side.

"Alright." She holds out her hand; closes her eyes. The whiff of pomegranate catches his nose and he puts his hand over hers.

"No," he says. "Not that way." He will not put her through what he has suffered. Instead, he pulls a bit of metal from the underground, fashions half of it into a ring to put upon her finger. There are no witnesses but their souls, but that will have to do. Rarely does a god choose to come here and he has no desire to wait for Hermes to flitter about again. The marriage ceremony is quick, half muttered in his own words; what he does not remember of the rites, he makes up. She stumbles but tries to reply the same; he suspects she is a bit thrown off her plans but she is doing a good job of covering it in public.

He forms a ring for himself out of the remaining metal, drops it into her fingers so she can put it on him. The pleasure he feels as she puts it upon his hand makes him shiver, the limited contact all the more overwhelming.

He had not planned to take her to their bedroom immediately after the ceremony but finds himself unable to stop himself from saying "Come with me," and to his surprise, she goes. The judgments can wait; the judges will see to their own administration. The last few months have proved well enough that his daily oversight is not necessary. His obsession with her has not gone down now that she is nearby; if anything, it is even harder to think of anything that does not involve the woman at his side.

His wife, true to her nature, doesn't say a word until they're sequestered in chambers together.

"Are you truly alright?" She asks, gently placing her hand on his brow. "You're far thinner than when I left. And there have been rumors..." She bites her lip. "Well. I have worried."

"I missed you." Even to him his voice sounds scratchy, from months of little use. He pulls her close to him, rejoices in the ease of the action, how easily he can _move._ He is so keenly aware of how beautiful she is and this close, he has no defenses to the allure of her body. Her breasts are soft against his chest; her hips jostle against his and remind himself of all the promises of matrimonial bliss that they have yet to experience. His hand brushes her cheek before he can stop himself, the motion too quick and too easy to stop. She is so _beautiful_ a creature.

"Hades, what on earth has gotten into you?" He does not answer right away; he kisses her instead, feels himself all but melt into her. He is holding her tight, and holds her tighter still, and his wife does kiss back; she is confused, but she _does_ kiss him back. She lets him explore for a few moments, lets him stay content in his burning need to kiss her and gently thumb at her cheek.

"I love you," he murmurs. "It's been—been hell without you." He should tell her, he thinks, of the change that her leaving wrought in him, but then he hesitates, unsure of how to tell her. And of course, if he does, she will feel guilty, and it feels such a shame to mar such a lovely face with such a negative emotion. And how would she see him? He does not think he can bare for her to look upon him in shame, for what else could she feel, having so stupid a husband to commit an act of desperation without understanding the ramifications of it.

"I missed you too," she says with a soft giggle. "You should have come up, paid a visit."

"Your mother," he reminds her; the whole reason for this farce. Demeter is a lovely woman, but she has been dealt a poor hand with the men in her life. He understands all too well why she would hesitate upon her daughter's marriage, even to a king. He thinks she would take solace in his suffering while his wife has been gone; the lack of food, of sleep, of comfort. He has pined beyond the pining.

"Well, let me pay you back for that," his wife hums; her eyes are soft, and he knows what she thinks of is not anything so pure as her mother's embrace. She leans up to him, and he stares, enchanted, as she slowly works at the edges of his robe.

"Your eyes look like stars," she whispers; he does not tell her it is because he has seen a void beyond her knowing. He tries to bring his hands up to help her, now blissfully free of his struggles, but the girl waves his hands away. "Let me," she says. He does not offer again; she slowly pulls at his vestments, her breath a harsh intake of breath when she sees the now large divots at his chest, the thinness of his arms.

"You've not eaten well," she chides. "You must have really missed me."

Her kiss hits his collarbone, the touch almost orgasmic in and of itself. He gasps, rubs his hands through her hair. "Oh, my dear," he rasps. "You have no idea." He is too overwhelmed to do much more, and has to content himself with allowing her to kiss a fiery path down his chest. She takes her time there; rubs her hands through the hair there, as if she is trying to search for any hidden pains. He is so close to telling her of all his ills, but pride stops his stubborn tongue. How can he express what she has done to him, his soul parted from his body? There is a reason, he thinks, that Zeus and his other brother did not take up their father's tradition. He has given her power far beyond what he intended to, and he cannot find it in in him to regret it when the woman looks over him so heatedly. Her cheeks blush a winsome dark rose color; he wants badly to kiss her.

But he cannot, for she moves a bit lower. She kneels down, and even knowing what's coming, his eyes roll into the back of his head as her hands slowly press his robes past his hips. This is further than they've ever gone before, and his skin feels as if it is on fire. He is no virgin—but it has been a long time, and he does not remember it feeling like this.

But then, no one he has lain with his had half of his soul in her bright eyes.

"I am new to this," she murmurs; she kisses at the divot of his belly and he finds his knees weak. He falls backward onto the bed, wanting to control his descent before his knees buckle and he falls upon her. He does not think that he will be able to continue standing, not with the way that he is affected. He fears he will not give her a good display of his prowess. "You will tell me if I do anything wrong?"

"My dear," he sighs. "I don't think that is possible." He watches her shy descent to the edge of the bed. She sits, perched there, staring at him for a long moment. She rubs her hand over a long-forgotten scar on foot. A titan's glancing blow; he'd been lucky to walk away. She slowly lowers her head to his foot, kisses the tip of his toes. It is ticklish, and he gives her a high-pitched titter before he can stop himself. He does not recall ever having such a reaction, and that thought only burns brighter in his mind as her lips slide from the tip of his ankles to his legs. He watches her; she looks back, radiant heat in those eyes as she slowly, reverently kisses at his legs.

The sensation has him hard as a rock; he feels a fool, a flag pitched at full mast. There is no hiding it, not with her beautiful torment lighting up nerves all along his body. His hand winds in her hair as she gets a little closer; she kisses at his knees, then his thighs. She lays her head on his thigh and he thinks if he could never move again, he would die happily, to have her looking at him so.

"I love you," he says, hoarse still; she is ever prettier as she smiles.

"You did marry me," she says, though love often is not entirely synonymous with marriage in their kind. He is very, very lucky to have found someone who clearly treasures him as much as he treasures her. He did not think such would ever happen to him. Nervousness flushes through his system, duels with lust as he moves. She's slower here—more uncertain ground, he thinks. She has not known a man, but she is careful as she moves between his legs; she kisses slowly around his hips, follows the small trail of hair south. Her hand slowly moves, but his mind is still stumbling, struggling with the idea that she is here, that this is happening. It is not her touch that makes him slow but the sheer desire he has for her, threatening to explode out of every part of him. She strokes a long-dormant part of him, her hand slowly taking the measure of him.

The touch of it is so pleasurable it borders on painful. His eyes close shut and he shivers, hips off the table at just the barest touch of her hand. Tears blot at his eyes, and Persephone stops, her hands stilling at his thighs.

"Am I doing it wrong?" She asks; she winds her way back up toward his face, rests her hands on his face. "I only wish to pleasure—"

"It has been a long time," he says, quiet, the truth, but not quite the entire truth. He clasps her face with his hands and kisses her. His head swims, thick in the joyous cacophony of his senses, so long deprived and now restored: the beauty of her mouth, so red, so inviting. He kisses her again and again and again and ignores the red-hot surge to his groin. Even clothed, he can feel the heat of her winding against his thigh. The silk of her dress does nothing but tease his legs, the sensation adding only more to what already feels overwhelming.

She shifts back, looks at him with hooded eyes. She shifts down slower this time, takes her time kissing at his chest, his belly. Her tongue slowly whirls over one of his nipples; he tries, mostly unsuccessfully, to ignore the instinctual urge to arch. He wants to go slow. He wants to make this good for her. He can think of nothing _but_ her—that has not lessened. Still, she at least takes it as eagerness, and only gives him a lusty chuckle as this time she gets a bit braver, uses her tongue to slowly round the tip of his member. He gives out a sharp cry; she looks up.

"Don't stop," he grits out; he does not want to stop, does not want to explain to her why he is acting such a fool. She is a good wife, and she does not stop; she tugs with her hand as her mouth slowly suckles the tip of him, and he cries out with each merciless stroke of her tongue. Her eyes remain on him, which is both attractive and further punishing; he gasps, heavy, in her hand. He already feels pleasure-pain burning hot in his groin, a heavy friction that condenses into a powerful lightning jolt.

She keeps her eyes on him as her hands slowly explore; perhaps sensing how close he is already, she backs off on his cock, just blows on it lightly with her breath as her hands map out his thighs, his hips. He slowly breathes in; she presses a kiss to his thigh. He breathes out, but barely gets the breath halfway out of his body before she is on him again, gently suckling at just the head of him. He is glad she does not attempt to take the whole of him in his mouth—he could not take it.

Her tongue stumbles over the vein at the edge of his cock, which burns as if fire in her capable mouth. She isn't experienced at this but he does not mind; he thinks if she were, he would come at the sight of her. The hottest of lightning bolts arches through his groin as she slowly lowers takes more of him inside her sweet mouth. He whines, hot, tries to get out the words to tell her to back off, can't—and feels his orgasm ripple through him. She bolts back the second it arches through him, and he wants to weep at the look of confusion she gives him.

"Forgive me," he says; he sits up straight, tries to smile. She wipes her face off on her robe, the look on her face more confused than anything else: lips together, eyes wide. He knows he should tell her: tell her of how the six months without her have affected him, tell her what her touch is doing to him. But what falls out of his mouth when he tries to scoot down to her is: "I couldn't...You are so beautiful, I just—" His voice breaks; he is flush with embarrassment.

She does not let him say more than that; she kisses him, and even knowing it will be exquisite torture, his hands find the fibula of her dress and undo them, throwing the brass jewelry into the corner of the room and sending her silken dress quickly after it.

He has only a second to admire the glory of her skin; young and unmarred, her hips and breasts looking achingly soft to the touch. Then he is too occupied with kissing every inch of her. He kisses her neck, her arm, and his lips tingle as if he has tasted the finest of ambrosia. She is more docile at this part; lets him flip her down onto the bed and looks up at him. "I do not know how to touch you," she mutters.

"Do not worry about me right now," he says—he does not think he can handle such. Even just the glide of her skin on his is soft and too sweet; it hurts to feel her so close to him, to feel her move underneath him, healthy and whole and _here_ and _his_ _wife_. He tries to give her a smile that he hopes is reassuring; he knows what to do, what will hopefully give him a bit of time to recover from the overwhelming sensations burning through him. He takes his time on her as she did on him: he maps out her skin, slowly kissing each and every part of her.

He kisses at her shoulder-blades and marvels at them: the soft divot of her clavicle, the gentle roll of her shoulders. Her arms he kisses slowly, takes time to look at each little inch of skin: perfectly unmarred and sweet, as only a goddess could be. He kisses her fingers and she giggles, flexes her hands against his lips. The touch makes him feel delirious; he kisses each again and she laughs, the soft tinkle of her voice the loveliest sound in all creation.

Experimenting, he pokes one of her little digits into his mouth, sucks upon it; she tastes just as sweet as always, and Persephone's giggle becomes a soft moan. Her faces flushes with a warm heat that he only wishes to produce more of. He suckles it once, twice, and only then returns her finger to the bed; he press her hands down, as if to tell it to stay there. Miraculously, she listens to the unvoiced command.

He dives his face between her breasts; she is so, so soft. The skin there is warm and welcoming, and he wishes he could lay his head upon her forever. He kisses at one, then the other; she cries out a bit, sensitive. He notes it and slowly suckles at one, then the other, producing glorious sounds out of her. She is not quiet, no; her sound is mewling and sweet, and in his ears, the sound is one he tries to focus on committing to memory. He has only so long to bask in her presence, only so long to enjoy her before the dreaded parting will happen again.

He banishes that from his mind, however, as the mewls become more demanding; her fingers break their promise, and she tugs at his face, gently moving him from breast to breast. He enjoys the noises; breaks her hold to dart back up to her lips and feels, in the slide of his legs over hers, that he is already iron hard for her again. Her hand moves to capture his cock, drifting to grasp it against her belly, but he pulls her hand back over her head before she can grab it.

He will make up for his earlier deficiencies in her, but he will take his time getting there.

He continues his trail of kisses, kissing at her throat, her collarbone, her sweet breasts one more time, and slowly diving south, lapping kiss upon kiss on her belly. She is softer there than he is, and he enjoys the soft press of his mouth at her flesh as he makes his way downwards. He nips gently once at her belly, and the soft moan tells him well enough she likes such.

Much to his pleasant surprise, she shows little modesty as she spreads her legs apart, giving him easy access to what lays between. He avoids the main course at the start, teasing nips on her thighs instead. He follows them with more tender kisses; his fingers slowly trace the path of her flesh underneath. She is perfect, he thinks; absolutely perfect. His fingers slip slowly up her sides, and he lays his head upon her thigh.

"May I...?" he asks; she just laughs, this rather confident girl. She is as careful in her plans as he is, but she is bold, this little thing. His heart thuds as his fingers slowly move over the slit of her; her lower lips are spectacular, puffed out just so. He parts her gently, the soft reddish-pink of the inside as dazzling to his so-recently-restored vision as any vision of Aphrodite. He finds her clitoris quickly with his finger, slowly moves over it in a slow circle.

Her breath speeds up when he finds it; he watches her face as she wiggles this way and that under him. She is not as affected from being so love starved as he was, but he thinks: she has missed him, as well. Missed the possibility of moments such as this. He will show her how her absence has made his heart all the fonder. He may no longer have such a choice, in that.

He kisses her soft mound as his fingers drift southward; he can almost taste her, the scent of her heady and thick. The scent makes him feel as if he is a man starved; he wants to taste her. Not yet, though. It is horribly difficult to resist diving straight to licking at her pearl, but he moves his finger gently lower, curling it around her entrance. She has not known a man, and he has every desire to make this easier for her.

She is already wet enough that he can slide in one finger; she sighs as he moves it inside her. He keeps the pace slow, lets her slowly relax around his finger. He looks up at her, and she looks back; she looks so much in love his heart feels liable to burst from the happiness in his chest. Six months of misery, he thinks, was worth it, if only for _this_.

Without breaking his gaze away from hers, he gently spreads her open a little wider, lets his tongue slowly swipe up and down over her clitoris, the button making her thighs slowly clench around his face. His cock thunders, angry at being neglected; he keeps it so, ignores its wrath. He will give her what he cannot help but see as her due. He adjusts his legs so that he can have a bit of friction against their bed ( _their bed!)_ and concentrates on the taste of her instead. She tastes like honey, her essence sweet to the tongue. There is another taste to her under the sweetness, a damp earthiness that is only more beguiling. 

"Lover," she murmurs; the word makes him want only to give her more and so he does. He laps at her again and again; he does not think he could ever get tired of her taste. He moves his hands with her, too, trying to open her a bit more. He does not think he will last long inside her. His body is too overwhelmed, but he is making it his mission to make sure she does not notice. She pants softly as his tongue circles her clit, and he thinks: _I will bring her to the edge. She is close._

He doubles down; he slides one of his digits back inside her, trying to open her up. He takes his time doing it; he is not too quick, his body still too love-starved to exert himself too much. He lets her enjoy each sensation; when he adds a second finger inside of her, she wiggles up against him, her body eager, and he teases her with his tongue and his finger combined, listens to her breath for clues on how to take her further. It gives him something to think about that is not the pounding blood of his own desire; he laps at the center of her, varies the pressure: heavy, soft, soft, _deep_ with the fingers. It doesn't take long before she is making more than a little noise, her gasps ragged and heavy and sweet, sweet music to his ears.

She is so, so close, but he teases her a bit more, waits until her thighs quiver around his face consistently before he exhaustively pulls back. She is flushed; her arm raises to his, a wordless command. _Do it._ He obeys.

He pulls away; his own blood boiling. He wants to last and takes his time; he lines them up as gently as he can.

"Alright?" he asks; the word is difficult to form.

" _Yes_ ," she whispers, and the intensity of that one word tells him that this is long overdue.

He wastes no more time and pushes in far as he can, bends down over her so he can touch her as he presses in. She clenches tight around him, her arms wrapped tight as she holds his cock tight inside of her. He can't hold back a strangled cry, and she taps at his back in response. The desire to pound into her is overwhelming, but he wants to last. He doesn't move for a long time, simply pressing kisses at her neck. 

"Does it hurt?" he asks. He hopes he has prepared her enough, and the smile on her face tells him that she has.

"No," she says. "Only the six months of waiting for it."

He would laugh were those six months not so miserable; instead, he kisses her and takes comfort. She is here, this brilliant woman: here and beautiful and _real_.

He sets a pace for them after that; it's quite slow, tender as he can be. It’s still painfully pleasurable. She is so tight and so warm and so, so much _his_. She becomes less and less shy as she gets used to the thrusts; her hands slowly move across his skin, exploring him in ways that light pleasurable trails down every path she travels. He concentrates mostly on his thrusts, on keeping his tempo. He ups it slowly, trying to last longer for her. He has to pull back onto his knees, depriving her of her explorations, but he wants to take her over the edge before he comes again. He will not have her be a wife unfulfilled, despite the difficulties he's facing.

One of his hands drifts low, slowly thumbs her clit as he moves faster. She cries out, her hands clutching at their sheets as he does it. There is nothing so innocent in her now as when he first saw her, sitting in her mother's garden. He doesn't back down; his own current is sparking through his blood, and he has every intention of following her over the cliff. His body pistons into her on instinct now; it _hurts_ but he is going fast, and he cannot stop himself, and he knows it is only a matter of time.

 _Come_ , he thinks; _come_. Persephone is shivering underneath him, so close to the brink. He presses harder, goes in deep as he can, and pulls himself out only to do it again and again. He manages to keep the brutal pace for all of a minute, but it's a minute long enough: "I love you," she cries out, and then she is gasping like a fish, and he basks in male smugness at the thought that he has done it, he has brought his wife to the place of desires and laid bare its treasure for her.

Her fingertips dig tight into his hips and she pulls him close; he surrenders to his own badly needed orgasm, groaning into her shoulder as he empties out within her. She does not mention how his hips jerk at it from the pleasure, which burns through him so hard it is painful.

He does not move after. Does not think he is even remotely capable. A laugh ekes out of him; he is so happy. He is so, so happy to have her at his side. She does not ask why he is laughing. Her hands gently thread through his hair though such is not, at this present time, an easy thing, with his hair so long neglected.

"You are heavy," she says, after his laughter dries to nothing; he looks at her, and she smiles.

"I'll move," he says, though such seems almost impossible. Still, he tries—only to have his wife's hands hold him down.

"No," she says. "You are a pleasing weight."

And he is happy to be that.

He snuggles upon his wife's shoulder and closes his eyes. He is tired from the six-month ordeal, and even knowing he should tell her, he does not.

Instead, his breathing slows, and he slowly falls asleep on her shoulder, completely and bonelessly happy, his soul reunited.

The best part, he thinks, is that he knows she will be there when he wakes up.

**Author's Note:**

> The title is taken from "In My Solitude," a jazz standard composed by Duke Ellington with lyrics by Eddie DeLange and Irving Mills.


End file.
